And Find A Way To Break The Fall
by egelantier
Summary: "They're here," the man said, suddenly deathly pale, and then, "Run!" Clint cursed him and himself and his entire life, hoisted the stranger off the bed, snatched up his bow and arrows and ran. / a third part in "An Arrow, Still Unbroken" series.


_birthday present for Arsenicjade. Third in "An Arrow, Still Unbroken" series._

Being left in charge of the entire estate was strangely easy, at first. It happened quickly, and Clint did not have time to worry about it. First the Doctor went away on some mysterious and undeclared business, to Clint's quiet and guilty relief. Then Lady Natalia came and went, as if blown in and out by the spring winds, and Lady Pepper departed for some unspecified negotiations, accompanied by Lord Rhodes and many hired outriders.

Then Lord Stark, his stallion already saddled and ready, summoned Clint and gave him the duty of watching over the whole estate while he was away.

"The wards will keep away anybody and anything unbidden; nobody enters and nobody leaves. But if you _need_ to leave, here's a key to them", and he taught it to Clint, words heavy and smooth on his tongue.

It's not, Clint thought, like he could - like he _would_ leave - even if he wanted to. His first and only outing to the city market with Lady Pepper ended with him throwing up in helpless animal terror, overwhelmed by the crowds and the smells and the press of bodies, until the Doctor came with a carriage to pick them both up. But the careless trust in the gesture still made Clint swallow and stand as straight as his bad leg would allow.

"You've been either very patient or very incurious, have you not?" Lord Stark mused, already mounted. "I suspect it's the former. Do not worry: we're drawing the last lines in the sand, now. When I return, you will know all you want to know."

With that, he left.

Clint practiced his archery and tended the remaining horses, took Bree out every morning, ate the food brought by the ever-useful automata and made tentative inroads into the manor's impressive library, and started to quietly believe that no trouble would arise until somebody returned and relieved him of the responsibility.

He was, of course, dreadfully wrong.

* * *

He was riding Bree at the far reaches of the grounds, in sight of the wall, when the fair-haired stranger tried to break through the wards.

There was no sound to draw his attention - the magic kept all noise out - but he caught a splash of white and blue and red at the edge of his vision. When Clint looked over, the stranger was balancing on the wall, trying to lean in and falling. Half of his face was covered in blood, and the sleeve and left side of his bright surcoat was saturated with it. There was a black shadow rising over him, wings - claws - something - outstretched menacingly, and the stranger whirled around and almost fell, but slammed his shield into the monster, driving it away a bit - but Clint could see he was losing.

The stranger turned back and beat his fists against the invisible barrier of the ward in frustration, and then he saw Clint.

He stared, eyes startlingly blue, and mouthed: "Help. Me."

Clint heard, as if from outside of himself, his lips saying the words of release, even as his arms raised his bow. The wards went down just as the shadow lunged for the stranger, and the man fell over; Clint's arrow flew true.

He raised the wards back up and hurried to the fallen man.

* * *

Bree was indignant about having to carry a strange unconscious person on her back, but in the end she complied, and they made their way back to the manor without incident. Clint half-carried, half-dragged the stranger to his own room, dumped him on the bed and sat heavily next to it, his mind finally unfreezing enough to grasp the implications of what he had done.

_Nobody enters and nobody leaves_, and yet here he was, with somebody who could be a spy, or an enemy, or _both_ - but what else was there to be done?

He busied himself with hot water and clean bandages, with getting the stranger's tattered clothes off him and cleaning the wounds. They were strange - judging by amount of blood spilled on the clothes, Clint would've sworn the wounds should be fatal or near to it, should need stitches at the very least, but all he found was ugly red gashes. Still bad, but not half as bad as expected. He let this new mystery slide away as unimportant, continued the cleanup and nearly jumped out of his skin when the stranger's eyes suddenly opened.

"Who... are you?"

"I am Lord Stark's slave," Clint said, pleased he could keep his voice steady.

The stranger recoiled from him - perhaps he felt dirtied by Clint's touch - and coughed. "Slave? But - but Stark doesn't - ", and then quite obviously decided not to speak at all.

Clint weighed the impropriety of questioning a free man versus that of harboring an unknown person with unknown enemies in his lord's house, and asked: "Who was chasing you, and why? Why were you trying to get here?"

"I've never heard of slaves being allowed a weapon, or the key to the wards," the man said instead of answering, and Clint bristled despite himself.

"How lucky for you that I am, then!"

"It is," the stranger said immediately, his sharp gaze softening, "and I thank you for your kindness. You have undoubtedly saved my life. Can I be of assistance to you somehow?"

"You can, by telling me what you're doing here. Do you mean any harm to the household?"

"I have a - message for Lord Stark," said the stranger, and Clint thought the hesitation might hide a falsehood. Was this an assassin? A thief? Should Clint have killed him now, while he was weak and helpless, to rectify his mistake?

How exhausting and scary it was, to think as a free man. He dreamed of it for years, and here he was, yearning for somebody to give him the safety of orders.

"I don't suppose you believe me," the man said, and suddenly smiled a startlingly open, warm smile, unexpected and strangely earnest. "But I don't quite believe you, either, so we're at an impasse. Will it make your heart lighter if I swear that I mean no harm to either Lord Stark or those under his protection? I came to speak with him."

"Well, he is not here," Clint said before he could stop himself, and then cursed himself for being vulnerable to the slightest kindness.

"He needs - I need to talk to him, now," the man said urgently, and that's when the fire in the fireplace went out.

"What's happening?" Clint said, sudden dread crawling down his spine, and he watched shadows crawl out from the now dark hearth, lengthening and writhing.

"They're here," the man said, suddenly deathly pale, and then, "Run!"

Clint cursed him and himself and his entire life, hoisted the stranger off the bed, snatched up his bow and arrows and ran.

"What are," he panted, "_what are these damned things_, and how did they get in here?"

He could've howled with rage when the stranger said "I'm afraid they crept in when you opened the wards for me."

A vast and terrible wave was rising behind them in the hallway, filling Clint with terror; he knew he would not dare to look back. Something freezing and devastatingly sharp ghosted over his shoulders, effortlessly parting clothes and flesh; he gritted his teeth and made himself run faster, half-dragging the stranger along.

Jarvis' voice, inhuman and silver, boomed and echoed along the hallways: "INTRUDERS! INTRUDERS!", and Clint hoped, for a moment, that this would be their salvation; but nothing else happened.

They burst, breathless, into the grand hall, stumbled across it and fetched up at the far wall. The house around them was groaning, timbers creaking and stone breaking. Clint let the stunned stranger slide down the wall and made his stand before him, finally letting himself see what was pursuing in. It spilled out of the entrance, bringing with it unbearable stench of something cold and alien and ugly, and split into hundreds of separate entities, black monstrous shapes with snapping eyeless heads.

Behind him, the stranger struggled to his feet and said, "Try to run, I'll hold them, maybe you'll have a chance -", and Clint, for the first time in maybe ten years, told a free man to shut the hells up.

He let one arrow fly after another - amazing what difference it made to his aim, shooting for his life rather than for an audience - piercing the screeching maws filled with teeth, and the stranger struck at one who got too close with a piece of debris he managed to pick up. Sharp claws sliced into Clint's arms and chest and legs, and he knew that they were doomed, and his arms hurt so much, were so exhausted, that he could just - let go - but he had to -

Then a great booming sound came from the above, and the roof caved in.

* * *

The sight of golden-and-crimson armor descending through the broken roof was maybe one of the most welcome in Clint's life. Lord Stark dropped in the middle of the grand hall, arms raised and already glowing blue, and shouted "JARVIS!" at the top of his lungs.

It sounded like the entire manor answered him, in a hollow, heavy groan that made Clint's bones vibrate, and the fire in Lord Stark's arms blazed outwards, bathing the whole hall - house - grounds in blue brilliance. Light passed through Clint and the stranger, leaving them lightheaded but unharmed, but the shadowy abomination writhing around them burst and burned. Aside from the ever-present whirring of the clockwork heart, silence settled.

Lord Stark turned to them, faceplate rising, and said in an ominously quiet voice: "What in seven hells going on here?"

Instinct told Clint to beg; to disclaim all knowledge of the stranger; to leave him to Lord Stark's well-deserved anger and hope that at least his own life will be spared. Bringing a stranger in, for letting _intruders_ in, broken walls and damaged property, broken trust - the list of his sins was growing by the minute. The desire was so strong he could taste it, feel his knees wanting to bend, and yet he _couldn't_. The man behind him was injured and helpless, and he was Clint's responsibility, and it was just - impossible -

This was, he thought hysterically, a terrible time to discover the boundaries of his personal ethics.

He made himself stand his ground, mind frantically racing for some explanation - plea - that would make any difference, and that's when a stranger's voice said, "Since when do you keep slaves, Stark?"

"I don't keep any - ", Lord Stark began, then lunged forward, gripping Clint's elbow with his golden gauntlet when Clint's knees started to buckle as the bloodloss finally caught up with him.

"Breathe, goddammit, I'm not going to do whatever it is you think I'm going to do," Stark said in a different tone of voice, staring past Clint at the stranger in utter astonishment. "Rogers? Captain? What are _you_ doing here?"

"You were right", the stranger - Captain Rogers - said tightly, "you were right, I - I saw what they were doing, in Gulmira, I found out. If you're still looking for allies, I'm in."

"Ahhh", Lord Stark said, thoughtfully, and then: "Anybody going to collapse right now?"

Clint, who was considering doing just that, swallowed and shook his head, and the Captain echoed his movement. Lord Stark hauled him up as well, and drew them both towards his work chambers.

"Well, then. Let us talk war."


End file.
